They bid me sleep, they bid me pray, They say my brain is warped and wrung-- I cannot sleep on Highland brae, I cannot pray in Highland tongue. But were I now where Allan glides, Or heard my native Devan's tides, So sweetly would I rest, and pray That Heaven would close my wintry day! 'Twas thus my hair they bade me braid, They made me to the church repair; It was my bridal morn they said, And my true love would meet me there. But woe betide the cruel guile That drowned in blood the morning smile! And woe betide the fairy dream! I only waked to sob and scream. XXIII. 'Who is this maid? what means her lay? She hovers o'er the hollow way, And flutters wide her mantle gray, As the lone heron spreads his wing, By twilight, o'er a haunted spring.' ''Tis Blanche of Devan,' Murdoch said, 'A crazed and captive Lowland maid, Ta'en on the morn she was a bride, When Roderick forayed Devan-side. The gay bridegroom resistance made, And felt our Chief's unconquered blade. I marvel she is now at large, But oft she 'scapes from Maudlin's charge.-- Hence, brain-sick fool!'--He raised his bow:-- 'Now, if thou strik'st her but one blow, I'll pitch thee from the cliff as far As ever peasant pitched a bar!' 'Thanks, champion, thanks' the Maniac cried, And pressed her to Fitz-James's side. 'See the gray pennons I prepare, To seek my true love through the air! I will not lend that savage groom, To break his fall, one downy plume! No!--deep amid disjointed stones, The wolves shall batten on his bones, And then shall his detested plaid, By bush and brier in mid-air stayed, Wave forth a banner fail and free, Meet signal for their revelry.' XXIV 'Hush thee, poor maiden, and be still!' 'O! thou look'st kindly, and I will. Mine eye has dried and wasted been, But still it loves the Lincoln green; And, though mine ear is all unstrung, Still, still it loves the Lowland tongue. 'For O my sweet William was forester true, He stole poor Blanche's heart away! His coat it was all of the greenwood hue, And so blithely he trilled the Lowland lay! 'It was not that I meant to tell... But thou art wise and guessest well.' Then, in a low and broken tone, And hurried note, the song went on. Still on the Clansman fearfully She fixed her apprehensive eye, Then turned it on the Knight, and then Her look glanced wildly o'er the glen. XXV. 'The toils are pitched, and the stakes are set,-- Ever sing merrily, merrily; The bows they bend, and the knives they whet, Hunters live so cheerily.